Burning Angels (8 page)

He handed her a sheet of paper. It had a few words scrawled across it.

Kammler H.

BV222

Katavi

Choma Malaika

‘These are the keywords we’ve picked up from their email chatter,’ Jaeger explained. ‘Vladimir – if that’s his real name – was communicating with someone higher up. The guy who calls the shots. Those words came up repeatedly in their comms.’

Narov read them over a few times. ‘Interesting.’ Her tone had softened slightly. ‘Kammler H. That is SS General Hans Kammler, presumably, though we all thought of him as long dead.

‘BV222,’ she continued. ‘The Blohm and Voss BV222
Wiking
– has to be. A Second World War flying boat – a real beast of a machine that could land just about anywhere there was water.’

‘
Wiking
meaning Viking, presumably?’ Jaeger queried.

Narov snorted. ‘Well done.’

‘And the rest?’ he prompted, not rising to the provocation.

Narov shrugged. ‘Katavi. Choma Malaika. Sounds almost African.’

‘It does,’ Jaeger confirmed.

‘So, have you checked?’

‘I have.’

‘Well?’ she demanded irritably.

Jaeger smiled. ‘Want to know what I discovered?’

Narov scowled. She knew that Jaeger was playing with her now. ‘How do you say – does the bear shit in the woods?’

Jaeger smiled. ‘Choma Malaika is Swahili for “Burning Angels”, Swahili being the language of East Africa. I learned some while on operations there. Plus get this. Katavi translates into English as . . . “the Hunter”.’

Narov flashed him a look. The significance of that name certainly wasn’t lost on her.

Ever since childhood, Jaeger had believed in portents. He was superstitious, and especially when things seemed to signify something to him personally. ‘The Hunter’ was the nickname he’d been given during their expedition into the Amazon, and it wasn’t one he had adopted lightly.

An Amazon Indian tribe – the Amahuaca – had helped them in their quest for that hidden warplane. They had proved the most constant and loyal of companions. One of the tribal chief’s sons, Gwaihutiga, had coined that name – The Hunter – for Jaeger, after he had saved them from all-but-certain annihilation. And when Gwaihutiga had lost his life at the hands of Vladimir and his murderous crew, the name had become even more precious. Jaeger cherished it, lest he forget.

And now, another hunter on another ancient continent – Africa – seemed to be calling to him.

12

Narov gestured at the scribbled list. ‘We need to get this to my people. Those last words – Katavi; Choma Malaika – they are sure to signify something more to them.’

‘You’ve got a lot of confidence in them – your people. A lot of trust in their abilities.’

‘They are the best. In every sense of the word they are the best.’

‘Which reminds me – just who are your people? I’m long overdue an explanation, don’t you think?’

Narov shrugged. ‘I agree. To that end my people have invited you to come and meet with them.’

‘With a view to what exactly?’

‘Being recruited. Joining us. That is, if you can prove you are truly . . . ready.’

Jaeger’s face hardened. ‘You almost said
worthy
, didn’t you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I think. It is not my decision either way.’

‘And what makes you think I’d want to join you? Join
them
?’

‘Simple.’ Narov glanced at him. ‘Your wife and child: right now my people offer the best chance you’ll ever have of finding them.’

Jaeger felt a surge of emotion well up inside him. Three terrible years – it was one hell of a long time to be searching for your loved ones, especially when all evidence suggested they were being held captive by a merciless enemy.

Before he could think of a suitable response, he felt his phone vibrate. Message incoming. Leticia Santos’s surgeon was keeping him updated by text, and he figured it was maybe news of how she was doing.

He glanced at the cheap mobile’s screen. These pay-as-you-go phones were often the most secure. If you kept the battery removed, only powering up briefly to check for messages, they were pretty much untraceable. Otherwise your phone would betray your location every time.

The message was from Raff – normally a man of few words. Jaeger clicked and opened it.

Urgent. Meet me at the usual place. And read this.

Jaeger scrolled down and clicked on a link embedded in the message. A news headline appeared: ‘London edit suite firebombed – suspected terrorism spectacular’. Below was a photo of a building engulfed in a cloud of billowing smoke.

The image hit Jaeger like a punch to the guts. He knew that place well. It was The Joint, the edit suite where the final touches were being put to a TV film telling the story of their expedition into the Amazon.

‘Oh my God . . .’ He reached across and presented the screen to Narov. ‘It’s started. They’ve hit Dale.’

Narov stared for an instant, betraying little visible reaction. Mike Dale had been their Amazon expedition film-maker. A young Aussie cameraman-cum-expeditioner, he’d filmed their epic journey for a number of TV channels.

‘I warned you,’ she said. ‘I told you this would happen. Unless we finish this, they will hunt every one of us down. And after Cuba, even more so.’

Jaeger slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbing his Belstaff and bike helmet. ‘I’m meeting Raff. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back with an update . . . and an answer.’

As much as he felt like burning some rubber to work off his pent-up anger, Jaeger forced himself to take the ride easy. The last thing he needed right now was to smash himself up, and especially as they might well have lost another of their team.

At first, Jaeger and Dale had had a fractious, troubled relationship. But over the weeks spent in the jungle, Jaeger had come to respect and value the cameraman’s craft, and to cherish the man’s company. By the end, Dale had become someone he counted as a close friend.

By the ‘usual place’ Raff meant the Crusting Pipe, an ancient bar set in the former cellars of a central London town house. With its low, vaulted brick ceiling stained yellow with tobacco smoke and a layer of sawdust scattered underfoot, it had an air about it of a meeting place of pirates, desperadoes and gentleman thieves.

It was just the kind of venue that suited Raff, Jaeger and their ilk.

Jaeger parked the bike on the cobbled square and made his way through the crowds, taking the stone steps to the lower level two at a time. He found Raff in their usual cubbyhole, a place about as private and conspiratorial as you could ever wish for.

There was a bottle of wine on the ancient, battered table. By the glow of the candle beside it, Jaeger could tell that it was already half empty.

Wordlessly, Raff placed a glass in front of Jaeger and poured. Then he raised his own, darkly, and they drank. Each man had seen enough bloodshed – and lost a good many friends and fellow fighters – to know that death was a constant companion. It came with the territory.

‘Tell me,’ Jaeger prompted.

In answer, Raff slid a sheet of paper across the table. ‘A summary from one of the coppers. A guy I know. I got it about an hour ago.’

Jaeger skimmed the text.

‘The hit happened sometime after midnight,’ Raff continued, his face darkening. ‘The Joint’s got tight security – packed full of expensive editing gear, it’s got to. Well, the guy got in and out without triggering any of the alarms. IED planted in the online suite where Dale and team were doing their final edit, hidden amongst the bank of hard drives.’

Raff took a long pull on his glass. ‘The explosion seems to have been triggered by someone entering the room. Most likely a pressure-plate IED. Either way the blast served two purposes: one, it obliterated all film of the expedition. Two, it turned half a dozen steel hard drives into a storm of shrapnel.’

Jaeger asked the obvious question. ‘Dale?’

Raff shook his head. ‘Nope. Dale turned back at the edit suite to fetch a bunch of coffees. Getting one for everyone on the team. His fiancée, Hannah, was the first in. Her and a young runner.’ A heavy pause. ‘Neither survived.’

Jaeger shook his head in horror. Over the weeks that Dale had spent cutting together his film, Jaeger had got to know Hannah pretty well. They’d enjoyed a few nights out, and he’d warmed to her sparky, spirited company, plus that of the runner/edit assistant, Chrissy.

Both of them dead. Blown to pieces by an IED. It was a nightmare.

‘How’s Dale taking it?’ Jaeger ventured.

Raff glanced at him. ‘Have a guess. Him and Hannah – they were set to get married this summer. He’s a complete mess.’

‘Any CCTV images?’ Jaeger asked.

‘The word is they were wiped clean. The guy who did this is a pro. We’re getting access to the drive and we may have someone who can recover something. But don’t hold your breath.’

Jaeger refilled their glasses. For several seconds the two men sat in sombre silence. Finally, Raff reached across the table and grabbed Jaeger’s arm.

‘You know what this means? The hunt is on. Us for them. Them for us. It’s kill or be killed now. There’s no other way.’

‘There is some good news,’ Jaeger ventured. ‘Narov’s back. Awake. Hungry. Seems pretty much recovered. Plus Santos is crawling her way back to consciousness. I figure they’re both going to pull through okay.’

Raff signalled, ordering more wine. No matter what, they would drink to the dead. The barman arrived with a second bottle and showed the label to Raff, who nodded his assent. He pulled the cork and offered it so Raff could check whether the bottle was good. Raff waved it away. This was the Crusting Pipe. They took proper care of their wine.

‘Frank, just pour, okay. We’re drinking to absent friends.’ He turned his attention back to Jaeger. ‘Tell me: how is the ice queen anyway?’

‘Narov? Antsy. Feisty as ever.’ A pause. ‘She’s invited me to go meet her people.’ Jaeger glanced at the sheet of paper lying on the table. ‘After this, I think we need to be there.’

Raff nodded. ‘If they can get us access to whoever did this, we should all go.’

‘Narov seems to believe in them. She’s got every confidence.’

‘And you? You sure of her? Of her people? No more doubts, like you had in the Amazon?’

Jaeger shrugged. ‘She’s difficult. Cagey. Doesn’t trust anyone. But I figure right now her people are the only option we’ve got. And we need to know what they know.’

Raff grunted. ‘Good enough for me.’

‘Right. Send a message. Alert everyone. Warn them we are being hunted. And tell them to prepare to meet – timescale and destination to be decided.’

‘Got it.’

‘Plus warn them to watch their backs. The people who did this . . . One moment’s carelessness, we’re all dead.’

13

The spring rain felt soft and chill on Jaeger’s exposed skin. A damp, grey caress, one that suited his state of mind perfectly.

He stood in some pine woods set well back from the playing field, his dark biking trousers and Belstaff jacket merging with the dripping, dank wetness of the scene.

A cry echoed across to him. ‘Back him up! Go with him, Alex! Back him up!’

It was the voice of a parent, one that Jaeger didn’t recognise. The guy must be new to the school, but as Jaeger had been absent a good three years, most of the faces seemed unfamiliar to him now.

As his face must be to them.

An awkward, distant figure half hidden amongst the trees, watching a schoolboy rugby match in which he seemingly had no interest; no child to cheer for.

A worrying stranger. Gaunt-faced. Reserved. Troubled.

It was a wonder no one had called the police on him.

Jaeger raised his eyes to the clouds. Low-lying, glowering; scudding with a swiftness that mocked the tiny but determined figures making a push for the try line, as their proud fathers yelled encouragement, scenting a hard-fought victory.

Jaeger wondered why he’d come.

He guessed he’d wanted to remember, before the next chapter of the mission opened – meeting Narov’s people, whoever they might be. He’d come here – to these rain-lashed playing fields – as it was the last place he had seen his son happy and free, before the darkness took him. Took them.

He’d come here to try to recapture some of that – some of that pure, glittering, priceless magic.

His eyes roamed around the scene, coming to rest upon the squat but imposing form of Sherborne Abbey. For well over thirteen centuries the Saxon cathedral and then Benedictine abbey had stood sentinel over this historic town, and the school where his son had been nurtured and thrived.

All that fine education and tradition crystallised here, so potently, on the rugby field.

‘KA MATE? KA MATE? KA ORA? KA ORA?’
Will I die? Will I die? Will I live? Will I live?
Jaeger could hear the words even now, echoing across the pitch and reverberating through his memories. That iconic chant.

Together with Raff, Jaeger had been a stalwart in the SAS rugby team, as they’d pounded rival units half to death. Raff had always led the Haka – the traditional pre-match Maori war dance – the rest of the team flanking him, fearless and unstoppable. There were more than a few Maoris in the SAS, so it had seemed peculiarly appropriate.

Childless and not the marrying type, Raff had more or less adopted Luke as his surrogate son. He had come to be a regular visitor at the school, and an honorary coach to the rugby team. Officially, the school hadn’t permitted them to do the Haka before matches. But unofficially the other coaches had turned a blind eye – especially when it had set the boys on a winning streak.

And that was how an ancient Maori war chant had come to echo across Sherborne’s hallowed fields.

‘KA MATE! KA MATE! KA ORA! KA ORA!’

Jaeger eyed the match. The opposing team were rucking the Sherborne boys back again. No try. Jaeger doubted the Haka was still an opener to their matches, with him and Raff being absent now for three long years.